


Parchment

by Jaetion



Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Community: IJ ides_of_march, F/M, Romance, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-14
Updated: 2010-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-06 06:45:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaetion/pseuds/Jaetion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ink on skin.  A response to the challenge "Final Fantasy VII/YuffiexVincent/Loved" from the ides_of_march community at Insanejournal (March 2009).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parchment

The back of his neck was silkier than any of the royal kimonos. She pushed aside his long hair and stroked the skin there, running her fingers over the little dip at the top of his neck, then down to the bump where his spine began. Beautiful just wasn't a strong enough word; probably weren't any words good enough from him. _Awe-maze-gorg-sexy. Super-fant-enthrall-tastic._

She flung her leg over his waist and dropped onto his bare back - He flinched a bit, but stayed quiet, suffering in silence. _Such_ a good martyr. She rolled her eyes and skimmed her hands over the knobs of his vertebrae, then over his ribs. Smooth, all of him. Smooth and cool, water running over a river bed. Smooth like ivory or pearls or materia.

She plucked the brush from its leather case and cupped the ink bowl in her palm, swirling it a bit before balancing it on the flat muscles of her thigh. She watched it for a minute - some people could read fortunes in ink, if you believed that sort of crap - to make sure it didn't try to commit suicide by leaping to its death, but the little clay bowl sat still, not a single ripple splashing in the black.

She always stuck the brush in too deep, always got too much ink. The first character was wet and ran like a stampede down the curve of his shoulder (his _oh-my-god-hand-grace-elegant-some_ shoulder). But the second stroke - the second stroke was perfect. Straight down. Curve right. Dab.

Over the white of his shoulder blade, over that space between shoulder blade and spine, over his spine. When she reached his other shoulder blade, she trailed the brush over the edge, extending the character with unnecessary trails. He shivered a bit and lifted himself onto his elbows, but before he could steal a peak, she jabbed him with the pointy-end of the brush. Some more of the ink teared and rolled down his side.

That didn't matter. The only one who'd be able to read the words was her, anyway. Even with all the mirrors, Vincent would only be able to make out part of the message.

_I love you_, she wrote along his right side, where he'd surely be able to see. Where he couldn't: _A fine ass, sir_. Where he might: _My pulse is the ballad of bliss my heart composes for you_, which she remembered from somewhere.

_Vincent Valentine_, she painted between ribs.

She turned the bowl on its side and soaked up the last of the ink. And then, over the small of his back with even more extra flourishes: _Yuffie Kisaragi_.


End file.
